


Fever Dream

by nevtelenwriting



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bestiality, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Does this count as tentacle sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, Frottage, I guess it does now, Implied Bestiality, Just. Just mind the tags., M/M, Nightmare Porn, Nightmares, Other, Tentacle Sex, This is dub-con cause it's kinda hard to consent to a nightmare, Wet Dream, Will has the worst dreams ever, Worst Wet Dream Ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 05:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevtelenwriting/pseuds/nevtelenwriting
Summary: Will's nightmares have changed. He's not quite sure what to do about that.





	Fever Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Ooy mind the tags. It's not non-con exactly but Will's not really happy with the subject matter of his dreams either, and it's a bit difficult to consent to a nightmare. Trigger warnings from some mild bestiality, not-exactly-enthusiastic sex and extremely dubious consent. 
> 
> Okay so this was actually 95% written back in 2013 but the shame boners actually kept me from posting it. Now it's 2019 I've cleaned it up a bit and I have negative shame and I'll just let the judgement wash over me. Whiskeyandspite played a big hand in overcoming that shame :P

It was their first session since the organ harvester was captured. Will hadn’t been able to look Hannibal in the eye since he was elbow deep in a dying man’s blood—not that eye contact came naturally with his not-psychiatrist anyway—somehow so calm and composed, it was as if he had never left his initial field at all. He was still a master and a savior in his craft despite what Hannibal had told him the night of his dinner party. He had wanted Will to stay for his party, a genuine request despite Will’s obvious social ineptitude, like Will was a friend worthy of the blue-blooded, upper-class bodies of Maryland. Forgive him if he didn’t think the same.

He had more pressing matters, anyway; he had to wrap up the case report with Jack and give one last look over the bodies the Ripper had left behind, to make sure nothing had been missed, hunt for possible discrepancies that would give even a hint of who the Ripper was. But there was nothing; not anything Will wanted to share with Jack, anyway. He forced himself to look into the Ripper’s eyes, and see the savage cruelty in which he possessed his instruments, an unrealized, unappreciated artist that sloughed away the crude existence of his corpses by mutilating them into something _remarkable_ in death. Will watched their skin and their lives strip away until all he could see were black feathers sprouting from the naked, blood-soaked limbs of Andrew Caldwell, Michelle Vocalson, Daniel Ledgerwood and Christopher Ward twisted into the mounted body of Cassie Boyle, split apart by a stag breathing heat down Will’s neck. Reminding him he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t if he tried.

“How much sleep did you manage this past night?”

Will swallows and ruminates the pros and cons of telling Hannibal the truth. He knows he didn’t get enough sleep, but the side effects never outweighed the benefits.

“Three hours, about. Give or take between waking up to make sure I’m still…” Will sighs, and taps his fingers against the arm rest.

“Still in your home,” Hannibal supplies, but it isn’t a question. Will nods anyway.

“And did you dream?”

He taps his fingers against the arm rest again. When Will dreamt, ever fiber and muscle throbbed like an open wound. The pulsing behind his eyes flickered and twitched in the same spasmodic dance of his pulse when he finally managed to drag himself under into something barely passable as rest.

Will kept his eyes fixed on the seam running up the sleeve of Hannibal’s suit jacket. “Yes.”

“Were they nightmares?”

Will sucks in a breath, holding it to keep himself as impassive as possible. He doesn’t want Hannibal dissecting his mind. He trusts Hannibal at this point, enough time between them had passed to let him in, but this was…different. The heat still simmered just underneath his skin, the aching agony of it melting his skin until he could almost smell the burn of it in Hannibal’s office. This isn’t something he is willing to share with his not-psychiatrist.

“Not… exactly.”

God, Will wishes they were the regular run-of-the-mill nightmares he had been having. He would take the heart twisting fear bearing down on his chest like a weight any day over the sick twisting heat in his gut he couldn’t shake, that _does_ make him shake from head to toe with desperate, panicked gasps and blood boiling in his veins.

Hannibal tilts his head curiously at that, and Will grimaces.

“Oh? Why the change?”

“I wouldn’t be talking to you if I knew, would I?” Will mutters bitterly. The frown Dr. Lecter pulls makes Will sigh, bringing his hand up to rub his eyes. He takes off his glasses so he can press his fingers into the ridge of the socket, warding off the perpetual ache there.

“I…I’m not sure,” he concedes, finally, mentally counting the minutes left until he could get out of here. Twenty-three minutes passed. Thirty-seven to go.

“William.” He addresses him pointedly, dragging him out of counting seconds, and the tone was very nearly chastising.

Will swallows down some much needed air, trying to calm his skipping heartbeat. Tentatively, he replies, “It’s the Ripper.”

It was all because of him. Will knows this, but to say it out loud makes bile rise in his throat, dread dragging up his spine as flashes of the dreams filter in and out of consciousness he pushes weakly back. Four more victims. Four more dead-ends elegantly crafted into disturbed mutilations of what his victims once were. Art, and defacement all in one.

Hannibal nods once, as if in understanding. As if he can understand the sick perversions terrorizing Will not only in his unconsciousness but now in reality, as well. “What about him?”

Will chooses his words as carefully as he can, to explain it sufficiently without opening the doors too wide into his mind. “He…it was like he was _mocking_ us. Mocking…the idea we’d be so blind to think he had a partner, or he was…just some black market surgeon looking for a dime. It was brutal, careful,” Will sucked in another breath. His heart was pounding again, thrumming in time with his migraine. “A retaliation. Very near… emotional, even for him. He wanted to make sure we saw his design for what it was.”

Hannibal is silent for six seconds, studying his friend carefully. Will pretends he doesn’t feel the pace of his heart increase under those penetrating eyes.

“Us… or you?”

Leave it to Hannibal to hit the nail on the head. The pounding lowers into his stomach, a nervous, anxious coil like a starving snake threatening to knot up and lurch into his throat, or drop down even lower and twist. Will chews the inside of his cheek.

“He wanted…” He clears his throat. He imagines he tastes blood around the unbearable dryness. He can’t say it. It means _admitting_ it. But Hannibal is watching him, barely blinking, transfixed though his eyes shift a fraction towards the water on the side table to Will’s right. Ever the helpful doctor. Will takes the water, downs half of it, and clenches it in his hand to ground himself to something concrete. He thinks of squeezing until the glass breaks, sees the blood flow bright over his hand, pink on his pants when it mixes with his blood. He imagines shards of glass poking straight through his hand. He forces out the words like he was being choked. “He wanted me to see it.”

The way Hannibal is eyeing the glass, Will contemplates the probability of Hannibal imagining the same thing. He figures the only variation would be the distaste of cleaning up the glass and blood afterwards.

“Why do you think that?”

He doesn’t even skip a beat. Will wonders idly if Psychiatrists were required to take a class on Poker Face. He wouldn’t surprise him. Very little surprises him anymore. Except, apparently for his dreams; images fueled by the reality of the Chesapeake Ripper’s kills, the design buried deep in his typical artistry that spoke more than elevation of disgusting, loathsome human beings. Something secret, like a whisper between lovers. Will shudders to himself, swallowing down the dryness again that threatens to become bile. If Hannibal notices, he doesn’t say.

The words were getting more and more difficult to choke out, images pulsing behind his eyelids everytime he blinks, but he feels like he has to. The hour isn’t up yet. “I’m the only one who _can_.”

Hannibal nods once, though his brow creases slightly, “Yet you say the agents, Jack Crawford and his men, understood the mockery.”

“That was just the polish,” Will scoffs almost immediately, scathingly, and waves his hand in an effort to find the right word, “A—an, an embellishment. He knew _they’d_ see it like that.”

“But not you.”

The smile that twists Will’s lips is painful, “Not me.”

“And what did you see?”

“…An invitation.”

The words hurt the moment they leave his mouth, like syllabic razorblades slipping over his tongue. When Hannibal’s brows actually arch in surprise, and Will can feel the sick heat twisting again.

“To what, my dear Will?”

To see him for what he was. To see he was more than just an artist. He was a master. Underneath the carefully constructed masterpieces, the desecration of the human to expose the tender flesh and blood of the art, there was emotion. Every good artist shared a piece of themselves in their work, and his… his was primal this time. Intimate. This was an invitation for Will to feel what the Ripper felt when he ripped. It was a gesture of passion. And Will had walked in unwittingly, seen the polish and scraped it off to stumble headfirst into the molten want of recognition underneath. Will had come back out burning, a persistent ache in his gut for _more_ that could not be shaken. That had manifested into discernible thoughts beyond cataclysmic emotions last night.

“I don’t know,” Will says softly, defeatedly. He can’t say this to Hannibal. He can’t let him see that deeply inside, how much the Ripper has twisted his fingers inside his head and wrenched his skull apart.

The disappointment is palpable from the psychiatrist and Will feels idly guilty for it. But Hannibal takes it in stride, leans back against his own chair and changes the subject. This one isn’t much better.

“Let’s go back to your dreams. You claimed they were not nightmares this time.”

God, he knows how to hit. Will’s lip twitches, fingers starting to tap against the arm rest again. The heat hasn’t faded, the images swirling unbidden just beyond his eyelids. He blinks and he can see black feathers. He blinks against and he feels sweltering heat. Will tastes his own blood and realizes he chewed the inside of his cheek raw.

“I wouldn’t exactly say that, Dr. Lecter. They’re still pretty tasteless.” He smiles a little, hoping Hannibal would hear the joke. He does, and he earns a smile from the good doctor’s carefully schooled features. It shouldn’t fan the fire in Will’s gut, but it does. He sucks in a breath to keep back any further betraying reactions.

“What was different?”

Will tries vainly not to think about the dreams as he speaks of them in half-truths, “The stag was there again. But it wasn’t…lethal. Aggressive, sure, but not deadly.”

“So it didn’t try to kill you?”

“I wouldn’t say that, either,” Will sighs, and clenches his jaw. He shouldn’t have said that, he knows that the moment he sees Hannibal’s interest pique in his eyes.

“Then how would you say it isn’t lethal?”

“The end game wasn’t to kill me. It wanted me to… see something,” Will’s tongue feels thick when the half-truths become closer to lies, yet closer to admitting what he had so carefully averted the subject from before. He needs him to stop talking. He can’t talk about this.

“See what?”

God, he could punch him. The bruise would blossom starkly on his cheekbone, dark blues that look black from the sharp curve of the bone. He would look skeletal. He wonders what he would look like with blood on his hands.

Black feathers gouge into Will’s eyes and he squeezes them shut, trying not to gasp air into his starved lungs. He’s boiling alive, he’s coming apart. He imagines black feathers and heat and Hannibal’s voice calming him down. Or trying to. Now, his voice is making the snake in his stomach come alive, twisting and twisting until all he can feel is _ache._ He can’t talk about this.

“Will?”

Will blinks his eyes open, and Hannibal is watching him with concern. He’s panting softly, and he feels the cold trickle of sweet at the back of his neck. Numbly, he checks his watch. One minute over. Will stands, and Hannibal follows.

“Times up, doctor.”

Hannibal doesn’t say a word about it; he merely nods once and tells Will to have a good night. Will doesn’t look up to see the barely discernible smile on Hannibal’s face as he holds the door open for Will to exit his office. He mutters a thank you, before dully walking down the steps to his car, and driving himself back to Wolf Trap, Virginia. The entire way back he can see the blood throbbing in his ears, in his fingertips, and his legs. He can feel his heart trying to pump out of his chest, the thickness in his throat making it difficult to breathe.

He doesn’t eat when he gets home, and only pauses long enough to feed his dogs. He crawls into bed and focuses on his breathing, like Hannibal once told him to several sessions ago. It rarely works beyond distracting him enough to fall asleep. He counts the seconds, the minutes, and the two hours that pass. His heart still spasms in his chest, uncontrollably, until finally exhaustion drags him under. He’s met with the images that have plagued him since the Ripper killed again, since he showed the drive of passion in his creations and bared it so openly, yet so secretly Will couldn’t have known it was there until he was neck deep in the blood of his kills.

The stag pins Will against the wall, sharp antlers like paring knives against the mortar, or concrete, or wood or bark or amassed, black shape designed to swallow him whole. It traps him in, large, depthless black eyes like onyx level with him as he breathes, shudders hot air over Will’s face, his neck, his chest with each powerful exhale. He trembles where he’s pressed, palms flat against the wall, entire body shaking. He’s in his night clothes, and he wishes he was covered more. But he wasn’t the first time, so there is no reason he would be now. He wants it to stop, but he can’t, the heat washing over him until it’s boiling in his gut, in his chest, thrumming through his limbs until he feels like an exposed nerve, each wash of air making him bite back the groans from the utter over-sensitivity. Heat curls languidly in his gut; his body seems to want it but Will knows he doesn’t, he can’t, he _shouldn’t_ want it there and he is sweating rivulets down his neck, his back, and his chest, hair sodden against his scalp with the anxiousness, the fear and something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

The stag’s dark, wet nose presses forward, rubs against his chest in a mockery of affection—it’s more a test, a challenge to see what he will do. Will trembles, and snaps his hips back against the wall, fingernails digging into the black nothing behind him to ground himself. He can feel the nothingness wrapping around his legs now, an unwanted embrace of tendrils slick but not wet, warm but not hot around them as they bind him down and immobilize possibility of running away. They spread his legs now, while the nose travels down Will’s stomach, caressing him through the shirt and Will feels the sob bubble up in his throat before he can stop it. _Not again, please, not again._

It noses his shirt up from his hips, bright, knowing, cruel eyes burning like coals as the wet snout drags from the line of his stomach to his chest, breathes sweltering air over his skin that hardens his nipples on contact and makes him choke out a delirious, panicked moan. The snake-like thing curled just at the base of his groin, ignored the entire day and now angry with the neglect, pools heat traitorously in his cock and _squeezes_. He is hard in an instant, and the snout keeps dragging over his chest, over his neck to exhale against his feverish pulse.

A shake of its head and Will’s shirt is ripped from his frame by those razorblade antlers, red lines of blood brimming up along his skin. Pinpricks of sensation that suddenly turns to fire when a hot tongue laps at them innocently, testing and torturing him until Will feels mortified tears in his eyes when his cock throbs in his shorts, staining pre-come into the fabric so that it can drag wetly over cotton with each heady pulse. The tremors that rack his body are violent with the disgust, the simple incomprehensible agony and horror and degradation of it. It’s killing him, from the inside out but he can’t stop the shattered gasps, the tortured moans that claw out of his throat like a caged animal.

He can’t escape it, like he couldn’t escape seeing into the Ripper’s mind, seeing not what he did when he killed, but what he _felt_ , beyond the superfluities, beyond the art-show the Ripper performed for the public. The artist’s true vision, exposed to the one man who could understand, could feel it, could taste it and burn with the same vulnerability that made the killer so deadly. The Ripper had made himself vulnerable, let Will see how he ripped, and in doing so gouged a knife so intimately deep into Will’s stomach it brought heat and longing that Will didn’t know he could feel for another creature. A residual effect of seeing in his eyes, but Will can’t help but recognize half of it as his own. And it’s _agony_. It’s anguishing, and humiliating, and such a calculated move over Will he could do nothing about the sensations splitting his head apart and crawling into his mind, sinking down his spine like a lover’s caress and scraping nails into every single nerve, and he can’t do anything but take it. He can’t stop the fevered dreams manifesting his fear, his agony, his unwanted desire into a sick, twisting pleasure to torture him from the inside out. But _oh god, please, not again, please not again_ he couldn’t live with himself if he let this happen again, not the beast, anything but—but, this, please, he’ll take it obediently this time but please not the shame of feeling it like this again…

And maybe, somehow, the beast hears him. It straightens its powerful neck, towering over Will’s trembling, aching frame, and shifts. Black melts away, feathers twisting into tar and ink, great antlers thinning to sprout from the side of its temples, snout replaced with a narrow nose and Will chooses to ignore what it looks like, how familiar the graceful arch of the shoulders are, the coal-eyes when slender hands like embers drag from his stomach to his chest, rubbing over his hard nipples in a torturous tease as the fine line of its nose buries into the crook of his neck, and the slick point of its tongue slides a long, slow stripe up his fluttering pulse. Will could cry from the relief of human hands and a human tongue, but it isn’t quite human, after all. Antlers still sprout from the corner of his eyes, claw-like fingers dragging down his sides so sharp he can feel the skin tear into ribbons of tissue. But he’s moaning with it anyway, tears mixing with the sweat pouring off of his jaw, cock harder than ever before and _pulsing_ with want. He begs before he can catch it, sobs before he can breathe again when he feels the not-quite-human thing, the monster, drive its hips forward to grind its own thick erection into Will’s.

Will is still trapped, still bound by the tendrils so he can only stand there and take it, feel the primal hunger burning through its body, showing Will all that it is, that _he_ is, that he’s capable of and more and how much he wants Will to finally _see_. An invitation for more, if only Will would reach out. Will feels bile in his throat and tastes blood when he groans unabashedly, arches his hips forward in the only acquiescence he can give. He doesn’t trust his tongue enough not to start screaming.

It is all that it takes. Will is freed from the black nothing, tendrils dipping into the waistband of his shorts to pull them off before receding into the black, and then he is hauled up and pressed bodily against the black, suffocating in the heat of the beast that lines his cock up to Will’s twitching entrance, rubs against the hole to feel him quiver and gasp, and shoves itself inside.

Will cries out, the burn and the stretch hardly palpable from the heat already soaking through his nerves, but he takes solace in the shadow of tenderness that is the creature’s long, twisting tongue curling against his neck, lapping at hot, perspiring skin so that Will shudders and grasps blindly at its shoulders to dig marks into black tar. Claw-like fingers slide over Will’s thighs where he holds him up and spread apart as it licks up the rivulets of sweat and blood, massaging its tongue over the sensitive skin around his ribs, his clavicle, his jugular so that Will relaxes around the thick length of its swollen, throbbing cock, affixed inside with such urgency and _need_ to feel, Will couldn’t miss it even beyond the pain. His sore entrance clenches around it as he pitches forward, forehead to the top of the creature’s, between the antlers as he holds on to its neck, and hisses through the first shallow thrusts of the beast’s cock inside him, bearable enough that he doesn’t start to whimper. He digs fingernails into its black tar flesh and swears he hears it growl.

Tongue and teeth against his neck distracts from the pain, forcing him to focus on that drive, that passion transformed into bitter lust, intimacy turned carnal with the act of shoving its cock in and out, in and out of Will’s abused hole, until the pain dissolves into punishing pleasure that rockets through him like a wave, each shallow, unforgiving thrust making another crash through him and drag him under until he feels like he’s drowning. It stretches him and fills him to make him _feel_ with every fiber of his being, from his mind on fire to his limbs shaking with hunger for harder, for deeper, until he’s gasping and groaning out a plea for more before he can stop it. And it gives him what he begs for. It slams into him with such force it punches unbridled pleasure into Will that he had been terrified of allowing for nights upon nights after witnessing those murders, the perfection of a master’s skill that made Will feel like a voyeur delving to the Ripper’s mind if he hadn’t known the Ripper wanted him to see it in the first place. Made sure Will would be the only one to see the personal touch. It had made him so hard, so unbearable excited he couldn’t go to work from the sheer embarrassment, but now, here, he can feel it without looking anyone in the eye. He can feel it forced into him like diving in had forced him, and the thought coupled with the wicked thrusts into his ass tears a cry of ecstasy from his lips, a soul-crushing realization that he couldn’t have escaped it; he couldn’t have run even if he wanted to. Will doesn’t know if he ever tried to run to begin with.

Will’s vision goes white with brutal agony and exhilaration before his eyes snap open to the stifling blackness of his bedroom in Wolf Trap, Virginia, breath caught in his throat as the last spasms of  orgasm coat the inside of his shorts in acrid come. His hips jerk with the movement irrepressibly, hands twisted in his sheets so tightly his knuckles ache; clothing and sheets are soaked through with come and sweat. Beside him two dogs whine in concern.

It’s over. Oh god, it’s over.

And Will _aches_ with the want for more.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey if you liked it drop me a line, kudos and comments give me life.


End file.
